


Consequences

by Icicle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bossy Draco, Dirty Talk, Draco attempts to teach Harry a lesson, Draco puts on a strip show, Exhibitionism, Face-Fucking, Harry abuses his Invisibility Cloak, Harry likes it a little too much, Hate Sex, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Light Dom/sub, Locker Room Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Obsessive Harry, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-War, Power Play, Quidditch, Shower Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-15 22:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icicle/pseuds/Icicle
Summary: Draco catches Harry spying on him in the Quidditch locker room and decides to teach him a lesson.“On your knees, Potter. Don’t make me ask again.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> To my lovely betas, **Ashiiblack** & **Felixfvlicis** , I never would have finished this fic without all your amazing help. I ♥ you both so much! And to the readers, if you're looking for a plotty or deep H/D fic where Harry and Draco fall madly in love, this is _not_ that fic. In this story, Harry and Draco have sex, and Slytherin actually wins at Quidditch.

 

* * *

  

_And Malfoy's caught the Snitch! Slytherin beats Ravenclaw 230-175!_

The words echo through Draco's mind as he flies yet another victory lap around the Quidditch pitch, his grip tight on his broom as a cold breeze hits his neck. Still out of breath and high on the thrill of adrenaline and victory, he stops and hovers around the Slytherin stands, weaving his broom into an elegant barrel roll. A loud roar erupts from the crowd, causing a flutter in Draco's chest.

As he continues to show off, flying his broom in an elaborate figure of eight, he hears a few cheers of _Malfoy is our King_. Shaking his head, he rewards his fellow Slytherins with his widest smile. He still can't believe this is real. That he's actually won, and that the crowd, or at least the other Slytherins, are cheering for _him_.

He wants to savour this moment and make it last forever, to etch it into the deepest recess of his memory. Slytherin hasn't had much to celebrate in the last few months. Hell, since he started Hogwarts, Slytherin has been treated like an outsider, despised by the other houses and even some professors. It's only become worse since _Saint Potter_ went and saved the world again. Potter's still the centre of attention; his minions fawn over his every move.

But today is not about Potter. For once.

Today is about him and his fellow Slytherins. Slytherin won, and the rest of the school will have to suck it up and deal with it. He can imagine the miserable looks on the Weasel and Potter's faces when they realise that Slytherin is now a lock-in to win the Quidditch cup. Oh, yes, things are finally looking up.

Today, Draco feels like he can fly without a broom.

 

**~*~**

 

Harry spots the Snitch.

Even on the sidelines and tightly wrapped under his invisibility cloak, his Seeker instincts still run strong. He can hear the quiet fluttering of silver wings, the slight buzzing reverberating from the metal ball. The way everything around him — the crowd, his teammates, everything but the wind at his back and that golden prize — disappears.

Lost in a wave of nostalgia, Harry's eyes follow the Snitch, watching it descend in a downward spiral towards the Ravenclaw goalhoops. This match has lasted for almost three hours and Harry's eager for it to end. He smiles as he realises that Malfoy's spotted the Snitch too. Harry watches him plunge his broom into a deep dive, leaning so far forwards on his broomstick that he looks like he may fall off, a look of fierce determination in his eye. Harry knows that look; he's seen it so many times when flying against him. He almost pities the Ravenclaw Seeker, who _thinks_ he has a chance, flying hotly on the tail of Malfoy's broom. He's much too late. Malfoy has already caught the Snitch, stopping his broom in a spectacular dive that even Harry has to admit was remarkable.

If Harry's honest, he'll reluctantly admit that Malfoy's an excellent Seeker. He's one of the most elegant fliers that Harry's ever seen. It's a pity he never noticed when they actually faced each other. The Gryffindor team has a standing joke that Malfoy bought his way onto the team—that his Quidditch skills are substandard. But watching Malfoy fly this year, watching him make spectacular catches — that even Harry will admit look difficult — has changed his mind. There's something different about Malfoy; he exudes a quiet confidence as if he believes he has something left to prove.

The roar of the surrounding crowd pulls Harry from his daze. As the entire Slytherin team mobs Malfoy, he feels a pang of regret.

Sometimes, he _really_ misses flying and regrets quitting his position on the house team. He yearns for the heady and careless exhilaration of zooming through the sky, the warm camaraderie of his teammates patting him on the back and looking out for one another, the coolness of the metal and pounding of his heart as he wraps hungry fingers around the Snitch, a familiar weight pressing into his hand like it belongs there.

He closes his eyes and imagines the entire Gryffindor team mobbing _him_ instead of Malfoy.

But then he remembers the war.

The last time he rode a broom — Crabbe perishing in the Room of Requirement. How he couldn't save Fred. Or Lavender. Colin. Remus and Tonks. Dumbledore. Cedric. His parents. Sirius. Even sodding Snape.

They willingly gave up their lives so Harry and his classmates can be free, so they can lead a normal life.

Yet, Harry can't figure out what normal _means_. He still feels lost, and he's more than halfway through the school year. His shoulders are always tense, and he can't rid himself of the constant twitch in his fingers. He's suffocating, despite the wild magic that flickers under his skin.

Being at odds with Malfoy is the only semblance of normality he can find.

Malfoy has always tormented him, since the first day he met the git. First, Malfoy was his rival and then his enemy, ending up collateral damage for the wrong side. And now—well, Harry has no idea what Malfoy means to him. He's definitely not his enemy and not a friend, if the glares and taunts Malfoy still greets him with can be trusted. But Malfoy… he still means _something_ to Harry. Always has. And—someone has to make sure that Malfoy isn't up to something—that he doesn't get into trouble.

Harry likes to tell himself that his feelings towards Malfoy are due to Dumbledore. Dumbledore wanted to help Malfoy. He believed he was worth saving.

Since Dumbledore isn't here, Harry decides he will keep an eye on Malfoy instead. He feels responsible for the git now that he saved his life. That's all. The fact he dreams of Malfoy's hard body pressed behind him as they escape the fiery hell of the Room of Requirement on a nightly basis means _nothing_.

Okay, so Malfoy's not terrible to look at. Harry supposes that he's quite fit, if you like that tall, willowy, blond type. Then again, there aren't many attractive blokes to choose from among the returning eighth years, and even fewer that Harry knows are bent or at least willing to experiment. Last week, he _accidentally_ walked in on Zabini sucking Malfoy off, so he knows the idiot likes blokes, not that he'd ever be interested in Harry. And Harry isn't interested in Malfoy either. _Not really._

Harry just likes to watch him. That's not a crime, right? Watching Malfoy feels comfortable. It reminds him of a simpler time when Dumbledore was still alive and Harry had never heard the word Horcrux. Of course, hunting down Voldemort and destroying his Horcruxes wasn't easy, but at least Harry had a purpose, a focus, a plan for the future. Now, he feels confused about everything. And Malfoy — well — he continues to haunt Harry's mind as miserably as sixth year, if not more so, especially now that Harry finds him so attractive. Things were much easier when he thought of Malfoy as that ugly, pointy git.

Harry sighs. His obsession is spiralling out of control. _Again_. Whenever he leaves the Gryffindor Common Room, Hermione gives him a pointed look, judging him, as if she knows exactly what he's thinking and what he's up to. She knows him so well that Harry's taken to leaving Gryffindor tower only under the pretence of his cloak.

Deep down, he knows that he should stop. Following Malfoy around will only bring him trouble. But after watching Malfoy get off with Zabini last week, watching him fuck Zabini's mouth with his thick cock, Harry can't help but stalk him.

He needs to know what he's up to at all times and hopes to catch him in some nefarious act. Harry feels his breath catch; his heart hammers against his chest. Lately, thinking of Malfoy unravels him. He closes his eyes and pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders. He's seen enough. Pretty soon Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherin team will crowd the locker room. Harry's made up his mind. He needs to get there unnoticed. The intense desire to see Malfoy again overwhelms him. Thank Merlin he's alone. Ron and Hermione would never let him live this down. His cheeks burn with embarrassment, but the feeling is fleeting. He deserves to indulge in this. It's what he _does_. He _craves_ it.

As he walks towards the Slytherin locker room, his mind floods with images of Malfoy. The way he handled his broom, his hands wrapped around the handle as if he were coaxing it into submission. He exuded a confidence Harry has not seen from him in ages. _Merlin, he's losing it_. Coming back from the dead must have addled his brain. He's lusting after Malfoy and yearning to know what his hands would feel like wrapped around his body. These are not normal thoughts. Why can't he ever be normal?

By the time he reaches his destination, he's grateful for the silence that envelops the room. He feels like he can breathe again. The locker room smells of salt, sweat, and musk, the familiar aftermath of a Quidditch victory. He settles against the wall closest to Malfoy's locker, his eyes fluttering closed.

Without risk, there's no reward.

 

**~*~**

 

Draco strolls into the Quidditch locker room, broom resting on his shoulder. Grinning, he turns to his teammates, who start clapping as he enters. Theo whistles and pats him on the back. "Good job out there, mate. You saved us from Zabini's horrendous performance."

Blaise glares at Theo, but then turns to Draco and rewards him with a big, goofy grin. "I only played as a favour to Draco, so we wouldn't have to forfeit."

Draco smiles at him. "Yeah, lay off him, Nott. Blaise was doing us a favour—"

Blaise crosses his arms in front of his chest, looking smug.

But then Draco adds, "Even if he was _bloody_ terrible."

Nott and the rest of the Slytherin team start laughing.

"I don't have to take this." Blaise stomps his foot and turns around to leave. "I'll see you lot at the victory party." He picks up his Quidditch gear and heads for the door. "Where I'm certain I'll be given the hero's welcome I deserve," he calls out over his shoulder before leaving.

Draco laughs again and almost doesn't notice when two large figures block his path. Startled, Draco looks up and meets their eyes. Ahh, Murray and Davis, the two new fourth year Beaters, who replaced Vince and Greg. They've always seemed to fear him, and Draco doesn't think he's ever heard them speak. Still, they manage to give him a sheepish smile and grumble, "You were brilliant, sir."

Draco shakes his head and then ruffles their hair. "Go enjoy the party," he tells them, "But don't let Slughorn catch you with any alcohol. And you don't have to call me, sir." He raises an eyebrow. "Captain Malfoy will suffice."

Normally, he wouldn't be so affectionate with his teammates, but they slaughtered Ravenclaw. Well, perhaps slaughtered is too strong a word, but they beat them and now Slytherin is a shoo-in for the Quidditch Cup. All they have to do is defeat Gryffindor in their last match, and that's a _Potterless_ _Gryffindor_. He can't help but salivate, already tasting the sweet victory he's chased since joining the team.

After making rounds with his teammates and watching most of them clear out, he walks over to his locker. Carefully, he pulls his gloves off his sweaty hands and then opens his locker, arranging them on the top wooden shelf. When he hears heavy, familiar breathing, Draco sneaks a discreet look around him. The two lockers next to his are vacant, as one had belonged to Vince and no one's wanted to reclaim it. The other belongs to Nott, who has already abandoned the locker room to set up the victory party.

He turns his head towards the empty wall next to Vince's locker and draws his wand. Narrowing his eyes, he listens for the culprit. After several almost disappointing seconds of silence, he turns back around. Behind him, he hears a relieved exhale, and Draco's lips curve into a smug smile.

_Potter._

He knew it.

Potter and that blasted cloak of his. He's been following Draco around all term, and Draco's finally had enough. Following him into the locker room is rather pervy and voyeuristic even for Potter.

Draco is about to turn around and hex the idiot when a better idea crosses his mind. Yes, a cunning Slytherin plot. If Potter likes to watch, _if_   he's so certain that Draco is up to something, then Draco will put on a show. He'll teach Potter a lesson that he'll never forget.

Potter will never know what hit him.

 

**~*~**

 

Harry holds his breath, or at least attempts to hold his breath. He presses his back against Goyle's old locker, trying to make himself disappear against the wall. Malfoy's staring at him. He keeps glaring at the corner where Harry's hiding, as if he can see right through him, which is absurd. Harry knows this. The only wizard he's ever known to be able to see through an invisibility cloak was Dumbledore, and Malfoy is no Dumbledore.

No, Malfoy's only being cautious. He must be paranoid that one of the other Slytherins could be playing a prank on him. He can't sense Harry's presence. If he relaxes, then everything will be fine. It has to be. Defeater of Voldemort or not, the last thing Harry needs is to be caught trespassing in a den of snakes, even if he might deserve to be hexed.

When Malfoy finally turns away, Harry exhales. Thank Merlin his cover hasn't been blown. He still doesn't know exactly why he's here, spying on Malfoy yet again. Really, he should count this as win and try to sneak out undetected. It doesn't look like Malfoy is getting up to anything nefarious in the locker room. None of the Slytherins are, regardless of the rumours, but Harry can't bring himself to move. It's as if his feet are glued to the spot.

There's something about Draco Malfoy; there always has been, that makes Harry abandon all logical thought and reason. Malfoy's completely maddening and drives Harry spare; yet he can't bear to look away.

He doesn't.

He continues to watch since Malfoy-watching is quickly becoming Harry's most disturbing yet favourite pastime. Merlin, he hopes no one else shares his interest.

Ignoring his racing heart, Harry focuses on Malfoy's lean figure. His hair is wild, at least by Malfoy's standards, which softens his sharp features—and his cheeks are still flushed. Malfoy should _not_ look that put together after a Quidditch match. Harry never does. It isn't fair. But Harry doesn't have time to ponder the unfairness of the situation since Malfoy unbuttons the collar of his robe, revealing a glimpse of pale, creamy skin. And—Harry is not affected at all. It's just skin, and Malfoy's skin is average at best. Absolutely average.

Malfoy leaves the collar of his robe open and begins removing his arm guards. He appears to be deep in concentration as those long, elegant fingers unsnap each button. Harry gulps. Only Malfoy can make the simple act of removing arm guards look this sensual. Harry is _beyond_ screwed. He should have left when he had the chance. Things can only get worse from here.

They do.

Malfoy stretches his arms over his head while he removes his heavy, Quidditch robe and jersey, looking oh-so damn casual and fuckable. He stands there flaunting a tight, sweat-drenched grey shirt — so pale it looks white — and it sticks to Malfoy's hard chest in all the right places, teasing faint abdominals and pectorals.

Harry bites down on his bottom lip. He digs his fingers into the thick fabric of the invisibility cloak, keeping his hands occupied as he tries to ignore the intense wave of desire that runs straight to his cock. Fucking Malfoy. He shouldn't be allowed to wear a shirt _that_ tight in public. It's obscene. Isn't he supposed to be all pure-blooded and proper?

Harry feels blood rush to his head. His heart beats furiously in his chest as he watches Malfoy bend over the bench. The bastard is folding his robe and jersey into meticulous squares. But is it necessary for him to bend that far over, allowing Harry to see the outline of his tight arse and a glimpse of his pale back too? He closes his eyes and tries to slow his rugged breathing. He needs to get himself under control. It's just Malfoy. And it's not like he's never seen another bloke naked.

When he opens his eyes again, Malfoy is still bent over the bench, but this time, he has one leg bent in a deep lunge as he removes his shin guards and boots. _Bloody hell, this is still going on. Can't he just hurry up?_ Harry used to take his Quidditch gear off in two minutes flat.

Time seems to bend backwards as Harry continues to watch Malfoy strip.

Boots and shin guards forgotten, Malfoy starts to peel off his shirt and Harry whimpers. The fucking tease slides his shirt off, inch by inch, excruciatingly slow, revealing a pale toned stomach that Harry wants to lick and suck all over. Malfoy smirks as if he knows how fit he is and then juts his hip out, teasing Harry with hip bones so sharp that Harry wants to grasp so tightly he leaves bruises behind.

Harry's cock throbs painfully against the waistband of his trousers, and even though he knows this is wrong, he can't ignore it. Wanking over Malfoy in the privacy of his dormitory is different than wanking over a real half-naked Malfoy, but he can't help himself. After all, he's only human and a teenage boy. All the teenage hormones he suppressed while busy worrying about Voldemort have returned with a vengeance.

Gryffindor morals be damned, Harry unbuttons his trousers and slips his hand into the waistband of his pants. He wraps his right hand around his cock and strokes it, first slowly and then picking up the pace as he watches Malfoy remove his Quidditch breeches, revealing a pair of sweaty, black pants. Harry bites down on his tongue, trying to keep quiet. He knows he's close but doesn't think Malfoy will appreciate Harry calling out his name in the middle of the Slytherin locker room. That will get him hexed or worse.

Harry takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. After several seconds, he opens them. Malfoy, still clothed in only his pants, takes a deep gulp from a flask of water. He licks his lips in a lewd manner and Harry can't hold back a low moan that forces itself from his throat.

"Salazar, it's hot in here," Malfoy says, seemingly talking to thin air.

He tilts his head back, pushing that annoyingly pointed chin up to the ceiling, and then pours the rest of the water over his head. It drenches his hair and Harry is certain he really _is_ going mad. He watches the liquid slowly drip down Malfoy's face, neck, and torso, all the way down to his pants, where his half-hard cock is starting to peek its way out of the waistband.

Harry has never seen anything so gorgeous. He's never wanted anyone so much. He continues to stroke his cock until he's pushed to the edge. As much as he's tried to deny it, Harry is hot for Draco Malfoy. He wants nothing more than to be fucked with that gorgeous cock. _Bloody hell. He's doomed_.

Why didn't he let Voldemort kill him when he had the chance?

 

**~*~**

 

Draco places the empty flask back in his locker and tilts his head back. Trying to hide his amusement, he shakes his head like a wet dog paying back its owner for the horrors of a bath. He hears a low moan and tries to act indifferent. His plan is working and he can't give up now. He peels off his wet pants excruciatingly slow and tosses them on the bench, for once not caring where they land. Satisfied with his strip show, he grabs a towel from his locker and drapes it over his shoulder, allowing Potter a full frontal view of his almost fully erect cock. Draco has nothing to be embarrassed about. He knows he has a big cock.

A hungry look in his eye, he turns to Potter or at least the corner where he hears Potter's unsteady breathing.

"I'm in need of a shower and a good wank," he says with a smirk. "I'm not stupid, you know. I know someone's here, lurking in the corner, getting off on watching me undress. And probably not for the first time either."

He laughs, a deep, sultry chuckle.

"You don't have to hide. Show yourself and I _won't_ hex you." His smile turns lewd. "In fact, if any invisible people decide to show themselves, I'll even let them join me."

Draco turns around and saunters towards the showers, making sure to wriggle his arse as he walks. He thinks he hears a gasp behind him, but when Potter doesn't jump at his offer, Draco tries not to be too disappointed. After he hangs up his towel and runs his shower, Draco peeks over his shoulder to see if Potter has changed his mind. _Some Gryffindor_ , he thinks, _aren't Gryffindors supposed to be brave_?

He attempts one more time to get Potter's attention. "I'm getting in the shower now," he calls, voice deep and husky. "Flying always makes me hard." He gives his fully erect cock a small tug, closing his eyes and parting his lips— a needy, exaggerated moan leaving his mouth. "I wouldn't mind some help."

As he steps underneath the showerhead, Draco thinks he hears approaching footsteps, but the running water muffles the sound. Perhaps he's imagining things. Merlin knows he's almost as frustrated as Potter right now.

As the hot water hits Draco's face and body, he lets out a low groan, allowing the warm water to soothe his tight muscles and flushed skin. He runs his hands through his hair, mussing it and grabs some shampoo, massaging the herbal liquid into his hair and scalp. He starts humming as the warm water washes away the remnants of soap, sweat, and dirt from his body. He closes his eyes, imagining that Potter is watching him, growing hard or possibly even touching himself while he watches Draco wash his hair, his tight arse and hard cock fully on display.

After cleansing his hair, he grabs some body wash and runs his hands down his body, rubbing his chest, stomach, and arse more forcefully than necessary, knowing he's _teasing_ Potter. He works up a rich lather and begins stroking his cock, which presses into his stomach, leaking precome. Closing his eyes, Draco increases the pace; he leans against the shower wall and tilts his head back, exposing his neck. When he finally opens his eyes, he grins, as this time he's certain he hears heavy breathing and the rustling of fabric. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the shadow of an old, dirty trainer peeking out of the cloak.

"I know it's you, Potter," Draco says, voice low and raspy. "Show yourself _now_. Or...I may have to inform McGonagall that her favourite Golden Boy has been stalking me all term and abusing that invisibility cloak, which is forbidden under school rules."

Draco can hear the smugness creep into his voice. He's always loved riling Potter up, ever since he first met the twat.

Within seconds, Potter reveals himself — all dishevelled and red faced — his chest heaving. His eyes glow dangerously behind fogged up spectacles. "You wouldn't _dare,_ Malfoy."

Draco cringes as he watches Potter toss his invisibility cloak, an incredibly rare and expensive magical artefact as if it were nothing but a pair of dirty socks.

"Wanna bet, Potter?"

Potter's face darkens and Draco tries to ignore the twitch it sends to his already aching cock.

Potter clenches his fists. "You _owe_ me. For a lot of things."

Draco scoffs and drags himself back underneath the showerhead, feeling goose pimples prickle his arms and legs. "Even so, Potter—" The warm water washes over him again, filling him with a confidence he didn't know he had. "There are _consequences_ to following me around all year."

He pulls his head out of the shower and steps out to face Potter, not caring that he's soaking wet or naked, scrutinising him as if he were the naked one invading Draco's personal space instead.

"What kind of consequences? I doubt—"

Draco doesn't give Potter a chance to respond. He drags him by the arm into the shower and shoves him against the wall, the rainfall showerhead soaking them thoroughly. Potter looks at him with wide, uncertain eyes; his fogged up glasses hang halfway off his face. Draco knocks them aside and Potter gasps, but doesn't say anything. Instead, he parts his lips and Draco takes that as a sign of consent. Well, it's too late to stop now.

Using his slight height advantage — and shock at having a wet, naked bloke push him into a shower fully clothed — Draco pins Potter against the wall and forces his mouth onto Potter's, pulling him into a fierce, bruising kiss.

Potter's lean frame goes rigid against him, and he hopes that he hasn't colossally misread the situation. At first Potter's lips are tense and unresponsive. It feels like he's sucking all the air out of Potter's lungs, the resistance from his body. Eventually, Potter's resolve seems to waver. Draco feels Potter's knees buckle against him; a low growl escapes from his lips.

"Malfoy," he says, once they finally pull apart, "what are you doing?"

"What does it look like?"

Potter stares. His cheeks are flushed and his chest heaves. His wet tee-shirt clings to his chest and his jeans are crumpled, hanging half open with a spot of dried come by the folded waistband. Potter's a hot mess and Draco's never wanted anyone more.

"I _know_ you want me, Potter," Draco says in what he hopes is a confident voice. "You've been watching me for weeks, following me everywhere I go." He licks his lips and leers at Potter. "I know you were there last weekend, hiding under that dreadful cloak, watching Blaise suck me off."

Potter looks horrified. "You're imagining things." He splutters. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you want me." He takes a step towards Potter and grabs him by his wet, flimsy tee-shirt and then yanks it over his head. "I _don't_ see you denying it."

Potter kisses him. He mashes their lips together in a sloppy kiss, grabbing his shoulders. He shoves Draco back into the shower.

"Shut the fuck up!" Potter yells, a wild frantic look in his eyes. Quickly, he shrugs off the rest of his clothing and joins Draco in the shower.

"I hate you, _Malfoy_."

"The feeling is mutual, _Potter_."

Draco swallows as he takes in Potter's lean chest and toned arms, the faint trail of black hair that leads down to his thick cock, how the idiot forgot to remove his socks. He licks his lips and is about to speak when Potter cuts him off with another kiss. This time, it's him pushing Draco against the wall. He clutches Draco's wrists and tries to pin them above his head.

Draco struggles against Potter's oafish hands but eventually pushes him off.

"What?" Potter blinks stupidly. "I thought you wanted—"

Draco laughs. "You really think _you're_ in control here." He arches an eyebrow. "After what you did—" He scoffs. "On your knees, Potter."

Potter stares, at first confused, but then his green eyes darken and grow wider in recognition. "I-I—"

"On your knees," Draco repeats, this time more forceful. It's not a request, and Potter needs to understand. "I _know_ what you want. You want me to fuck your mouth." He grabs Potter by the hair and pushes him towards the floor. "On your knees, Potter," he snarls. " _Don't_ make me ask again."

Potter lifts his head, locking eyes with him. He offers a faint nod, but Draco keeps his expression stoic. He can't let Potter know how much he wants this, how he's been dreaming of having the Saviour on his knees and at his mercy for ages.

"Get on with it," Draco urges, when he notices Potter ogling him.

Potter stares at Draco's cock with a mixture of awe, lust, and fear. After snapping out of his daze, he wraps his right hand around the shaft and brings it to his lips. He takes a tentative lick and Draco wonders if this is the first cock that Potter's ever sucked. He decides to encourage him and tugs on his hair, those wet, messy strands feeling surprisingly soft between Draco's fingers.

Potter seems to understand. He peels back Draco's foreskin and sucks on the head of his cock, never breaking eye contact. Trying to suppress a moan, Draco bites his tongue. Potter has barely started. He can't let Potter know that he's affecting him. As Potter sucks deeper, now using his hands as well as his mouth, Draco closes his eyes. He can no longer stare into Potter's intense green eyes, so fierce and determined without his glasses. _This will not do at all_ , Draco thinks. Potter is reducing him to a quivering mess, and _he's_ the one who needs to be taught a lesson. Potter will _not_ win this round.

After taking a few deep breaths, Draco tugs on Potter's hair again, this time forcefully enough to make him wince. "That's enough."

Potter releases Draco's cock and looks unsettled, which quickly turns to outrage. "What? Not good enough for you, Malfoy?"

Draco rolls his eyes. "Your technique was adequate, Potter, if not a bit sloppy."

"I don't need this—" Potter starts to say and attempts to stand up, but Draco shoves him back down to the floor and then yanks him by the hair like a naughty child.

"I don't think you understand." His voice is low and dangerous. "You're _not_ in charge here, Potter." He sneers. "This is your punishment for stalking me all term. You _will_ do as I say."

Potter opens his mouth to protest, but Draco forces his dick into Potter's mouth instead. "No. More. Talking." His grip tightens on Potter's hair as he starts bucking his hips, shoving his cock further down Potter's throat. Potter's eyes grow wide and he starts to gag, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. But Draco doesn't stop. He continues thrusting his cock into Potter's hot mouth, relishing the heat and tightness of his lips and the discomfort on Potter's face.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" He digs his nails into Potter's scalp. "You wanted me to shut you up. To fuck that filthy mouth of yours with my cock."

Tears trail down Potter's cheeks, but he never breaks eye contact. His cheeks are flushed and his breath heavy, as he struggles to breathe through his nose. _What a sight he makes_ , Draco thinks. And when Draco sneaks a peak at Potter's cock, he smirks, realising it's fully hard.

"You've been gagging for this." He lowers his voice. "Who knew the Saviour of the wizarding world was such a dirty little cock slut?"

Potter's breathing slows; his cheeks begin to tinge blue and he's afraid Potter might pass out. Draco only fucks him harder. "You're a natural, you know." Draco's throat is dry and scratchy. He barely recognises his voice. "It's as if your mouth was made to fuck my cock."

Potter bucks his hips in response and reaches for his own cock. He begins stroking it forcefully. A low moan escapes Draco's lips. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. Potter is losing control. He's getting off on this as much as Draco is if not more so. Draco feels his own breath hitch and orgasm threaten to release. He tries to compose himself, to bring himself back from the edge. He thinks of Greg and Millie making out in the Slytherin Common Room. He's always prided himself on his remarkable self-control. Eventually, he's able to reel himself in.

"Potter," he hisses, once he's able to speak again, "who knew you'd be—"

Draco doesn't get a chance to finish. Potter jerks his hips below him, and he knows Potter is about to come. He releases Potter's hair and allows him to breathe, trying not to whimper as Potter's mouth releases his cock. Potter gasps for air and starts choking; his hands clutch at his throat. He continues to wank himself, desperately, finally coming to the peak of his orgasm. He tilts his cock down, come splashing against the shower tiles. And—Draco can't look away. He's never seen anything so beautiful as a red-faced, dazed Harry Potter, whose hair looks like he got caught in a lightning storm. Not that he'd ever tell the arrogant prat. He has a reputation to uphold, after all.

Still gasping for air, Potter hunches over and straightens his legs, stretching them out against the wet tile. Draco has a strange urge to brush the stray strands of sweaty fringe off Potter's forehead, to rub soothing circles on his back. Afraid, he's losing his mind, Draco smacks him on the back with his palm in what he hopes is a mocking gesture.

"There, there, Potter." When he feels Potter jump beneath his touch, his cock twitches and Draco smacks him again. "You have nothing to be ashamed of." He doesn't bother hiding his smugness. "Blaise puked all over the place his first time." Draco rewards him with a smile. "I'm impressed."

For several more seconds, Potter attempts to catch his breath. Then he furrows his brow. "You didn't come," Potter replies, accusation obvious in his hoarse voice.

Draco flutters his eyelashes. "Obviously," he drawls. "Some of us possess better self-control." He gives a small smile. "Perhaps I was saving myself."

He props himself up against the wall with one arm, and then chances a look at his now half-hard cock.

Potter licks his lips. "For what?"

"To fuck you, Potter. What else?"

Potter gasps and closes his eyes. "I-I—"

Draco bends over, bringing himself eye level with Potter. He cups his face and kisses him soundly. "Eloquent as always," Draco sniffs. "Who said the lesson was over?"

Draco holds his left hand out to Potter, a challenge in his eyes. "Coming?"

With his own lewd smile, Potter accepts his hand. Draco drags him off the floor and pushes him back underneath the showerhead, forcing Potter to face the wall.

"Your arse is mine, Potter," he growls, groping Potter's arse.

Potter lets out a small yelp. "You wish, Malfoy."

Draco swallows, ignoring the familiar wave of desire Potter's words stir. He closes the distance between them and leans over, breathing in Potter's ear. "It will be," he whispers, as he flicks his tongue in Potter's ear. He jerks his hips and rubs his cock against Potter's arse, making Potter shiver. "Your arse is mine," he repeats slowly.

This time, he digs his nails into Potter's back, savouring the feel of hard muscles under his fingers. Once he hears Potter whimper, Draco presses his nose and mouth against Potter's neck, taking a deep inhale of the wet, salty skin. Overwhelmed, he kisses and sucks the sensitive nape, tracing tantalising circles with his tongue, causing Potter to squirm underneath him. Then, he bites down, hard enough to break the skin.

Potter groans intelligible words that sound a lot like: " _Malfoy_."

Secretly, Draco's ecstatic to have reduced Potter to a quivering pile of mush before even fucking him, but Potter doesn't need to know. Instead he says, "No talking."

He pushes him further against the wall, his face smothered against the wet tile. "Spread your arms and legs."

Surprisingly, Potter complies without protest. He opens his legs shoulder width apart and spreads his arms wide, placing his palms parallel to the wall. Draco takes a moment to admire this fine specimen in front of him, his hard lines and strong legs. He trembles imagining how tight they would feel wrapped around his waist. Swallowing, his hands leave Potter's shoulders and slowly work their way down to his arsecheeks. Potter lets out a low whimper.

 _Fuck, Potter has a fine arse_ , Draco thinks, as he studies the two pert cheeks, which feel firm and oh-so perfect between his palms. He parts them and starts tracing Potter's arsehole with his finger. Potter shivers again and pushes his arsecheeks further into Draco's hands. Draco spits in his hand and then slowly slips a finger into Potter's arsehole, mesmerised by how the tight muscle tenses around his finger. He pushes in and out. Potter moans and Draco pushes in deeper. When he doesn't feel any resistance, he adds a second finger and quickens the pace. When Potter continues to writhe, he adds a third, scissoring his fingers.

Once he decides Potter is sufficiently prepped, Draco smirks. "It's a shame we don't have any lube." He rubs his hands together and rinses them underneath the showerhead. "We'll have to get creative."

For a moment, Draco ponders the difficult decision of wasting either his expensive conditioner or body wash, but then he hears Potter's gruff voice. " _Accio_ Lube."

A small phial of lubricant flies out of Potter's crumpled jeans and lands in his hand. "You were saying." Potter sounds much too proud of himself as he hands over the lubricant, and Draco has to bite his lip to keep himself from crying out.

Of course, Potter can do wandless magic. That cheeky bastard. Really, he shouldn't be surprised. While he may be letting Draco dominate him, Potter is not a typical whiny bottom like Draco is used to. Power resonates off him in waves, and Draco couldn't be more turned on.

"This will do." 

Potter sniffs in response and Draco ignores him.

With shaky fingers, he opens the lube and pours a small amount in his hand. Rubbing his hands together, he warms the liquid between his palms. He coats his cock with the sticky liquid, giving it a few firm tugs. He decides to tease Potter again and rubs his cock against Potter's arse.

"Malfoy, are you going to fuck me or what?" Potter asks, exasperated.

"No talking." Draco imagines that fucking Potter against the wall will be a bit awkward, so he tries to find the most comfortable position. He leans forwards and props one arm against the wall, bracing most of his weight. Thank Merlin, for all the extra Quidditch training this term. He wraps his left arm around Potter's waist and draws him closer. Potter shifts his weight; he leans over and pushes both arms against the wall for balance. "I _won't_ go easy on you." Draco blows into Potter's ear. "I warned you there'd be consequences."

"I _don't_ care." Potter's chest heaves against him. "Just fuck me already."

Draco releases his grip around Potter's waist and shoves his face into the wall, knotting his fingers in Potter's hair. "You'll learn to listen and _like_ it."

Potter mutters what sounds like "Never", but Draco ignores him.

Without warning, he lines his cock up against Potter's entrance and pushes halfway in. Potter cries out and Draco allows him a moment to relax and adjust himself to the fullness of his cock.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, relishing the heady power that overwhelms him from being ball's deep in the _bloody Chosen One's_ tight arse. In his wildest dreams, he never would've imagined this possible. And Draco plans to cherish every moment.

"More?" Draco asks, once the tightness and heat become too much.

" _God, yes_!"

That's all the confirmation he needs.

Slowly, Draco pushes in all the way, savouring the tightness of Potter's hole, the waves of pleasure that vibrate throughout his entire lower half, spreading up his torso. It hasn't been long since his last orgasm, but he will _never_ tire of this—that exhilarating first moment when he pushes against an impossibly small hole and watches it expand to accommodate him. It's addicting.

Once he feels Potter relax and lean back against him, Draco starts to move. He wraps his arm around Potter's waist again for support and thrusts in deeply, using his hips, which causes a high-pitched squeal from Potter — the exact reaction he aimed for — and then he continues, thrusting in and out, deeper and harder. Normally, he likes to take his time, to torture his partner into submission, but the need is too great. The build up has gone on for too long, and he did promise to teach Potter a lesson after all. His cock aches for release, but if he gives in to the immense need, it'll be over before either of them are satisfied. That _cannot_ happen. Draco prides himself on his self-control and wants to make Potter come for a third time before relinquishing control. It's not often he has the chance to best Potter at something.

With his heart hammering in his chest and breath becoming unsteady, Draco tries to focus on Potter, who continues to squirm and pant. He's changed positions and has one arm pushed against the wall, but the other is cupping his cock, frantically wanking himself, trying to keep up with Draco's deep thrusts. _Clearly, he's enjoying himself_ , Draco thinks, feeling smug.

And he knows that he won't last much longer. Seeing Potter fall apart in his hands is too much to handle.

"That's it," Draco breathes in Potter's ear. "Touch yourself, Potter. Keep touching yourself and think of me, how no one's ever fucked you this hard or deep before."

Potter's breathing accelerates; he mutters an incoherent stream of profanities, muffled by the wall.

Draco holds his breath and fights back his own orgasm. As he feels Potter cry out and come, his entire body pulsates against his. _Finally_ , he thinks, and then he allows himself to give in. The intensity of his own orgasm washes over him and drives him over the edge. His vision becomes blurry.

Panting, he drops his hand from the wall and shifts all his weight onto Potter, flattening him further into the wall.

"Malfoy, you're _crushing_ me."

Potter struggles against him and when he feels Potter's knees start to buckle, Draco snaps back to his senses. He doesn't actually want to squash the idiot. He knows that McGonagall and the entire wizarding world will have his bollocks if he lands Potter in the hospital wing. Again. Carefully, he detangles his limbs from Potter's and pulls his now spent cock from his arse. With shaky legs, he stands and then bends over, still trying to catch his breath.

 _Merlin, he must look a fright_ , he thinks. At least Potter doesn't look much better. He almost trips as he turns around and then slides down against the wall until he hits the floor. He clutches his knees to his chest as he gasps for air, his face red and blotchy.

A wave of fear washes over him. Was it too much? Did he push Potter too far? Draco was certain that Potter enjoyed himself, but now he isn't so sure. Slytherins are known for being kinky bastards. It's written in their house creed. Blaise never protests no matter how far Draco pushes him, but Potter's expression is dark and closed off. Are those annoyingly green eyes filled with regret? Potter Summons his glasses and Draco gulps, afraid he'll wind up in the hospital wing instead.

"Potter," he asks in an uncertain voice, "are you alright?" He bites down on his bottom lip. "Did I hurt you? I thought you wanted—"

Turning his head, Potter locks eyes with him. "I'm fine." He clenches his jaw and his face takes on a familiar steely determination.

Draco takes a step back. He _knows_ that look. Merlin, he's seen it way too often on Potter's face, so he knows what's coming next. Potter's going to hit him. He's certain of it. Draco tries to remember where he left his wand. He wonders if he can make a break for it before meeting Potter's fist.

Using the wall for support, Potter lifts himself off the floor. He stomps towards Draco with purpose, and he tries not to panic. "Potter, I—"

Before he can react, Potter grabs him by the neck. He tangles his hands in Draco's hair and mashes their lips together. This kiss is nothing like the ones they shared previously where Potter was almost surprised and eagerly bent to Draco's will. This time, Potter takes control. He kisses Draco with such fierceness and determination that Draco thinks he's been hit with a Bludger. He feels his cock give a slight twitch, which is impossible since he's beyond exhausted and just fucked Potter for what felt like an eternity.

Too stunned to respond, Draco lets Potter continue to molest him. This kiss feels like an attack, another fight in the legendary Potter/Malfoy rivalry. Only this time he's _losing_. Potter's ravishing him with his mouth, attempting to strangle him with his tongue. He tastes like sour lemon drops. Who in their right mind still eats lemon drops? This has to be some new form of torture he's concocted. Why is he doing this? Doesn't the idiot know this is supposed to be a one-off?

Sure, it turns out that Potter's a brilliant shag, but that doesn't mean that Draco appreciates being mauled. And certainly not by Potter _because_ … _because_ … he hates Potter. He positively loathes him. He wanted to teach Potter a lesson. That's all. Not whatever _this_ is. His entire body aches and a wave of dizziness overwhelms him. Afraid he'll pass out and look even more foolish in front of Potter, Draco closes his eyes and finally surrenders, melting into Potter's kiss. Perhaps if he humours the poor sod, this will be over quicker, and Draco can get on with his life.

After what feels like forever, they pull apart. Draco gasps for air. He has no idea what just happened, and he's afraid he may need another shower, a cold one. He stares at Potter, dumbfounded.

"How's that for your answer?"

"I-I don't understand—" 

"You didn't hurt me." Potter's voice is firmer. "I wanted it." He purses his lips. " _All_ of it. And—it was bloody brilliant." He offers a wicked smile.

Draco ponders Potter's words. "Well, that's alright then," he says, preening. "So that," he gestures between the two of them, not sure how to describe the kiss they just shared, "was a…"

"A thank you," Potter says, still smiling.

"Oh—" Draco wonders if all Gryffindors thank people by mauling them, but he doesn't know how Potter will react if he asks him. After all, Potter seems quite unhinged at the moment, more so than usual. Perhaps Draco has actually shagged him silly. He always thought that was an old wives' tale, but that barmy look in Potter's eyes is making him reconsider.

"Right, well…" Draco clears his throat. "I think you've learned your lesson, _Potter_."

He tries to smirk, but he's afraid it comes off like a goofy grin instead. Merlin, he needs to get out of here. Potter is a bad influence on him. "Cuddling after sex is not my style so…"

Draco pauses and tries not to squirm as Potter continues to gawk at him expectantly. Those green eyes are quite unnerving. Has Potter always had eyelashes that long? Merlin, Draco's so fucked. That orgasm must've melted his brain.

"We're still enemies, you know," Draco babbles; his heart is racing and he can't stop himself from speaking. "I still hate you—"

"I hate you _too._ " 

"Alright." Draco tries not cringe at the awkwardness. "I have a victory party to get to—" he says, hoping that Potter will take the hint and leave him alone.

Potter sighs. "Right." For a second, he grimaces but promptly composes himself. "Whatever Malfoy." He turns around and walks over to his rumpled clothing, picking them up and dusting them off. Without so much as casting a cleaning charm, Potter shrugs on his jeans and then grabs his cloak.

Without meeting Draco's eyes, he says, "I won't bother you anymore." His voice is soft and almost dejected. "You don't have to tell McGonagall about the cloak. I'll leave you alone from now on." He turns around and starts walking away, leaving Draco stunned and more confused than ever. Why did seeing Potter upset bother him so?

A twinge of regret stirs in his chest, and he knows he _can't_ let Potter walk away. Potter is his rival, a constant thorn in Draco's side. Bothering Potter has always been his favourite pastime. Potter can't walk away and ignore him for the rest of term, possibly forever. Draco will _never_ allow it.

"Potter wait—" he calls, hoping to buy time until he can think of something better to say.

Potter stops walking but doesn't turn around. "What?" he grumbles.

"Up for a Seeker's game tomorrow morning?" Draco tries to keep his voice even. "I could use the competition."

Potter turns around, wearing his own confused expression, his lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't play Quidditch anymore. _You_ should know that."

"Right, I must've forgot."

Draco frowns and feels a chill run down his back. In his desperate attempt to stop Potter from leaving, he forgot that he's still naked. A blush creeps down his cheeks. Really, this is pathetic. Potter has just turned him down. Draco should let him leave, but he's never been good at backing down from a challenge, particularly when Potter's involved.

He takes a deep breath and then smiles. "I usually finish practice around 7 on Sundays." He raises his chin defiantly and straightens his posture. "The locker room is always empty."

Potter's eyes widen. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying... that as far as stalkers go—" He shrugs. "You're not so bad, I suppose. And—I wouldn't be opposed to indulge your habit a bit more." Draco wets his lips. "I quite enjoyed seeing you on your knees."

Potter furrows his brow. "So you're saying that—"

Exasperated, Draco rolls his eyes. Merlin Potter's thick. Good thing his plans with Potter don't involve talking. He smirks. "I'm _saying_ that I'm bloody late to my victory party, but I expect to see you tomorrow at 7. _Don't_ be late."

Laughing, Potter shakes his head. "You're a weird bloke, Malfoy. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"All the time. Now scram. Before I change my mind."

Potter laughs again; his eyes shine with amusement. "It's a date," he says, and then covers himself with his invisibility cloak.

Draco frowns. He's about to contradict Potter when he sees wet footprints disappear from view. _You're not supposed to get priceless magical artefacts wet_ , he thinks, _Everyone knows that_. Potter really is a _clueless idiot._  And not for the first time, Draco wonders how he ever defeated the Dark Lord. Shaking his head, he decides there are many lessons Potter still needs to learn, and hopefully they'll all end with Potter on his knees. Draco grins as he considers all the delicious possibilities.

Oh yes, it turns out his mother was right. Eighth year will turn out to be his best school year yet.

 

**FIN**

 

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks so much for reading! It was a lot of fun to write this playful power struggle between Harry and Draco. I wouldn't be opposed to writing a sequel if anyone wants to read about their future encounters.

 

Comments and kudos are ♥!

~Icicle


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